Chapter 32 Collins
Collins
“I NEED…”
“Alright,” Cortland calls out, clapping his hands together, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.
“McGowan is wrapping up the crew meeting for the tour now. He’s gone over the additional security parameters requested, and then he’ll join us in the studio.
We’ll get some hours beneath us before calling it a day to get some grub. Sound good?”
Everyone collectively nods and starts to file out of the room.
When it’s just the four of us left, Cortland turns, his eyes darting to the scarred side of Riley’s face before dropping to his hands and back up to his face.
I’m about to tell him to fucking check himself for staring at Riley, but then he smiles, and it looks to be genuine.
Creed gives my hand a gentle tug, as if in acknowledgement of my bristling protectiveness, because of course he noticed.
“You look good, Graves. How are you feeling?” Cortland asks.
“I feel good,” Riley answers a little too quickly, but it feels truthful.
I know he’s nervous about performing well.
He hasn’t said as much, but I know the possibility of being replaced because he can’t keep up scares him.
There’s no chance in hell that these guys would ever let him go, but it doesn’t stop that genuine fear from creeping in.
Riley oftentimes forgets just how vastly he’s improved with therapy. A lot of his ‘setbacks’ are strictly mental roadblocks that he’s still learning to overcome.
He’s still got his arm wrapped around me, and I place my hand over his, giving him a reassuring squeeze as I turn my head and press a kiss against the knuckle of his thumb.
Cortland nods in understanding. I don’t know how much he knows, but I can tell that he has some ideas. Not just because of the scars, but because of his lack of surprise over the entire situation.
He ushers us through the door and down the hall until we reach a room with a sign that reads,
Dark Sins Magic In Progress - DO. NOT. DISTURB. (or else).
The last words were written in red permanent marker that I instantly recognize as Creed’s blocky, all-caps handwriting.
A short laugh bursts from my lips that surprises even me, and I slap a hand over my mouth to stop from making any more loud noises.
But every one of the guys laughs along with me before Creed runs his finger across the top of the illuminated sign.
“This was the first thing we bought with the money we’d made from our first single,” Creed says with pride beaming from his ice-blue irises.
“Cost ‘em a whopping eighty-two dollars, but they loved it, so we left it,” Cortland adds with a playful eye roll, then knocks on the door once before stepping inside.
The studio is dimly lit with moody lighting, save for the soundboard area that’s set up in front of the window that exposes the recording booth.
Blair steps into view in the room, his head bobbing to whatever tune is playing through his headphones as he tunes his bass.
Bear is chatting silently with a man sitting behind the soundboard, nodding every so often.
With a kiss to mine and Riley’s temple, Creed breaks off to join Bear in conversation. The man behind the desk greets him with a handshake before resuming whatever it is they’re discussing.
I look around, taking in the small room, but it doesn’t feel cramped.
Dark gray walls are completely covered and lined with various awards, posters, photos, and memorabilia.
Riley tracks where my eyes have wandered and pulls me towards the far wall.
There’s a picture in a small frame of Creed, Bear, and who I’m assuming is Ben, their previous drummer, who left early on.
They’re all standing on a dark stage with devil-horn fists in the air and their tongues out.
The man on the far right has been covered with a sticker shaped like a dick. I turn to Riley with a quirked brow.
“Is that…”
“Tony? Yeah. He actually did that himself one night while we were recording. Creed told him it was bad luck to cover his face, but he didn’t listen.” I’m shocked when Riley’s lips tip up in the corners as he says, “Guess Creed was right, huh? Look at him now.”
A humorous laugh brushes past my lips because I don’t want to think about his or Steve’s state of being right now.
Or… lack thereof, I guess. Unfortunately, it’s too late to stop my thoughts as Guy forces his way into my mind without permission.
I’ve done my best not to think about him.
He’s stolen enough time in my life and space in my nightmares that I refuse to let him occupy my conscious thoughts, too.
I’m glad he’s gone, though I often wish he had suffered more.
Moving on, I graze my fingers along the records on the wall from when Malevolent Melodies went platinum.
I pause at a collage of ticket stubs and pictures taken from their first ever U.S.
tour. I marvel at just how young Creed looked on that stage.
He’s always been the most beautiful man in my eyes, but seeing his eighteen and nineteen-year-old face brings back memories of sitting on a couch in his dad’s garage, watching him practice until he had worn grooves into the tips of his fingers from playing guitar for too long.
The sweat glistening on his skin looks more prominent because back then he had only a small handful of tattoos.
“Even then he looked larger than life,” Riley notes, staring reverently at young Creed’s face.
“That he did,” I agree with a smile.
Riley tugs me along to the next wall, and I’m blown away by the number of awards that line a stack of shelves.
Top Rising Artist, Best Vocalist, Top Group in Progressive Metal, Billboard Top Hits, and on and on.
The world loves Dark Sins, but to see these awards and recognitions with my own eyes sends a massive rush of pride through my veins to know that they did it.
They actually made it big. To know that Creed, my Creed—the boy who helped to raise and care for me—had made a permanent name for himself in the music world.
I stop dead in my tracks at the biggest collage that’s been mounted in a large frame in the center of the wall, a small light illuminating it from above. Tears start to swim, blurring my field of vision and causing the images to warp.
Creed’s signature scent floods my senses just before he wraps himself around Riley and me, effectively sandwiching the three of us all together as we collectively stare at the images before us.
They’re…my Polaroids. Dozens upon dozens of them have been carefully arranged in neat rows.
Random pictures of pretty flowers, clouds, and some horribly shaky selfies stare back at me.
Years and years of my life captured and immortalized all surround one of the first letters I’d sent to Creed after I stayed up late to watch the debut of Dark Sins’ first ever music video.
Dear Creed,
You did it! You made it! Wow. wow. Wow. I got to see you on TV and I just can’t
believe it.
You worked so hard for so long, and now you are a rockstar! It may not mean
much, but I am so proud of you. You deserve to be on
top of the world. I am going to see your concert some day, so save me a
ticket, yeah?
Love, your biggest fan EVER,
Stardust. XO
“You kept these?” My voice breaks with the flood of emotions coursing through me. I feel ridiculous because the truth is staring me in the face.
Creed kisses my cheek, then my neck.
“I kept them all. The rest are at home, but this one,” he says, nodding at the letter with my ten-year-old handwriting, “needed to be here.”
I look at him, feeling even more all-encompassing love swelling up in my chest for this man.
Before I can say anything, the door opens, and a man walks through. He’s older, looking to be in his early fifties, but my God, he’s built like a fucking tank.
His eyes scan the room before landing on Creed, and he strides over, his massive frame quickly swallowing up the space that surrounds us. He’s a goddamned giant because he’s easily a head taller than Creed, who stands just over six feet tall.
“St. James, how are we today?” The deep drawl of his voice damn near vibrates the very walls of the studio. He holds out a hand to Creed.
“Good,” Creed answers, taking the man’s hand and shaking it before wrapping his arm around both Riley and me. “Glad to be back in the studio. It feels really damn good to get back to normal.”
Guilt gnaws at me again, because it’s me who’s kept him from living his normal, routine life. Creed gently squeezes my waist as a gentle reminder to calm my thoughts.
The massive man smiles and nods before shifting his attention.
“You must be Riley Graves,” he says, holding his hand out to Ri.
He eyes his hand before taking it and shaking once.
I don’t miss the mini spark of pride in his eyes at how steady his hand remained while greeting the man.
“I’m Fletcher McGowan. It's nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Riley answers, smiling. “Creed’s told me about you. As long as you’re nothing like Shitstain Steve and you don’t ogle my girl, I think we’ll get along fine.”
I’m shocked by Riley’s bold words, but the entire room erupts in laughter.
Ayla and I seem to be the only ones feeling some type of way, and it doesn’t match the energy of the room.
My shoulders slump in ease, and I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when she eventually joins in on the joke with a smile, then blushes when her eyes settle on Fletcher’s side profile.
I tuck that curious little nugget away to bug her about later.
“I’m just here to keep shit in order and make sure things flow smoothly. Outside of that, I’m nobody if you don’t want me to be.”